I can’t do this…

My head is spinning, and my throat feels so dry that every breath I take is like a raging forest fire. The thick, furry texture of my tongue is repulsive as I peel it off the roof of my mouth, noting the rich taste of iron that comes with it.

The skin around my lips feels itchy and tight.

Scratching my nails against it only reveals caked blood; my nose must have bled again while I was asleep. The blotchy state of my pillow confirms the theory.

Could that have suffocated me? Like when someone vomits in their sleep and they choke to death? I doubt a nosebleed would have been enough…

I cut the thoughts off before they start barreling down a dark path I have no interest in exploring this morning.

Is it even morning?

The dirty haze covering my window beneath the roller blinds is no indication, so I check my phone.

13 text messages from my boyfriend. 1 missed call from the “front office” of my apartment building and a voicemail letting me know a package arrived for me and they left it with my landlord.

It’s by no means surprising I slept in till five in the afternoon, and no greater surprise that I managed to sleep through the delivery guy pounding on my front door.

As the past few months have been going on, it’s been getting harder to wake up and stay that way…

I’ve found myself every morning fighting with my consciousness to let me wake. A psychological battle where I dream I’ve awoken and gone about my normal routine, only to discover I’m still in bed.

Metaphorical nails scratching at the backside of my skull like a prisoner dropped into the bottom of a black pit trying to claw their way out. Some days I forfeit and let myself be consumed, others I fight until my nails peel back, leaving stumps behind, and rare days like today my brain takes pity, letting me arise with little to no struggle.

I will say this… out of all the cells I’ve found myself in, nothing is more terrifying than being held hostage inside one’s own mind.

I don’t bother with the text messages; I already know they’ll be riddled with self-depreciation meant to entice a reply. He seems to have become a master at manipulating my feelings, or what’s left of them anyway.

So, instead, I peel the blood-stained case off my pillow and add it to the bag of dirty laundry I’ve been meaning to “get around to” for the past several weeks.

Cinching it tight, I swing it over my shoulder like Christmas’s worst Santa. “Unless you’re a pervert who likes dirty underwear.” I laugh under my breath as I haul the bag down the exterior steps of my apartment building toward the basement laundromat.

My fingers touch my lips at the sound of laughter, a slight glimmer of hope tickles the base of my stomach that I’m finally emerging from this month’s episode of darkness and loathing.

“Not to be mistaken with the Young and the Restless.” I laugh again and a miniature smile cracks my lips, literally, as I realize I completely forgot about the caked blood on my face. For whatever reason, call it mania, that makes me laugh even more.

Calling the basement a laundromat is more than generous. The view consists of a coin operated washer, dryer, folding chair, and muck sink. All tied together with the charming ambiance of an exposed lightbulb on a chain hanging from the ceiling.

I fish the tin of quarters and laundry pods I keep hidden behind a loose cinder block in the wall, starting up the washer with shoulder relaxing relief because I’ll finally have clean underwear that isn’t composed of tear away strings.

As I plop down on the ratty folding chair, most likely stolen from the bingo hall down the street, a strange sensation irks me.

I look around, rubbing a hand on the back of my neck to relieve the sensation of fingers dragging on my skin, but it doesn’t help.

Then I remember what happened last night, the man in the alleyway. “I was just seeing things… I was thinking about him, and the coke screwed with my head is all…” I tell myself, pushing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars.

“Jesus, who punched you?” an elderly voice calls from across the room.

I yelp, jumping out of my skin as I look up at the door of the basement. My elderly landlord stands at the threshold with a box on her hip. She puts her hand up in defense and waddles further into the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you, just dumping some junk down here.”

“Shit…” I murmur, scratching my forehead, “Sorry, rough morning.”

“It’s almost six o’clock.”

I brush her off, changing the subject. “Do you have my package?”

She drops a box full of God knows what in the corner of the room and huffs at me. “Yeah, want me to bring it down?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll collect it after I finish here,” I assure her.

She wiggles a finger at my face. “Might wanna wash the blood off your face, you look like Guy Fieri if he became a serial killer.”

“Charming image,” I groan, pushing to my feet with more spent energy than I care to admit. How the hell do I keep forgetting about the blood?

I wash the mess off in the dingy muck sink, the water running pink as I let it moisten the dried blood before scrubbing it off with my nails. I use the hem of my shirt to dry off and give my landlord a stiff smile. “Better, Gladys?”

She huffs again and starts back up the stairs. “Yeah, better. Don’t forget your package!”

Sitting down on the foldout chair, I finally pull my phone out of the waistband of my sweats.

I flick through my text messages, groaning as I read paragraph after paragraph as to why I should finally say yes to him. How it hurts him that I won’t even consider his point of view… how he and I could get married, leave all this behind and start new.

I didn’t want a relationship. He’s always pushing me for more and I’m too weak to tell him no… Maybe it’s time for me—

Boom!

“What the fuck!” I screech, leaping out of my seat as the washer slips off track and begins to make a horrible booming sound. “Stupid machine. Every time without fail,” I groan as I use my hip to bang against the metal siding until the inner barrel falls back into place.

After an hour, all my laundry is washed, dried, and haphazardly stuffed back into the drawstring bag.

I knock on my landlord’s first floor apartment that serves as the “front office” and wait for her to answer. Once she does, I give her my best accusatory glower. “You need to fix that damn washer; it takes a year off my life every time I use it.”

She huffs, “Does it still wash your clothes?”

“Yes—”

“Then it ain’t broke.” She disappears before I can reply and hocks a small package into my arms. “How much lingerie does a lady need?”

I stuff the box under my arm. “Going through my mail again, Gladys?”

She rubs her forehead as if warding off a headache. “Just cause I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t read.” She taps her finger against the company’s logo that adorns the tape sealing the package.

“It was a gift from my boyfriend.”

She puts her hand up, brushing me off. “Ain’t none of my business. Don’t be late with this month’s rent!”

With that, she slams the door in my face. “Always great to talk to you too, Gladys,” I hiss under my breath before departing back upstairs.

I drop the bag of laundry as soon as I enter my apartment. Every hair on my body is standing on edge. My senses scream at me, telling me I’m not alone.

Something’s… off…

“H-hello?” My voice rings out empty. There’s no reply, only the creak of old pipes in the walls.

I step further into my apartment, locking the door behind me. I look at the mess on my kitchen counter, the same empty pizza box untouched and beer bottles strew by the sink.

My living room is completely undisturbed. Blankets still thrown over the arm of my sofa and unpaid bills on the coffee table.

The sensation doesn’t leave me even as I take inventory… Was someone in my apartment? That or I’ve started to actually lose my mind.

My search concludes in the bedroom. The apartment is empty and everything is exactly where I left it.

“The marriage talk must have triggered me… that’s it… I need a hot shower and I’ll be fine…”

The shower does help, my shoulders seem to relax under the heavy beat of the water, allowing me to clear my head and convince myself of a million excuses.

Even if I do stress over the fact I can’t smell my body wash as I lather it against my chest… and the fact that my phone isn’t where I left it on the bathroom counter, but my mother always said stress equals forgetfulness. So maybe I left it on the kitchen counter, not the bathroom?

I don’t allow myself to dwindle on the thought.

A little while later, I stand stark naked in the small walk-in closet, tearing open the lingerie package.

My breath catches as I pull the set out of their protective bags. A pale, flesh-toned bra and thong, both encrusted with winking rhinestones and clear crystal charms.

My hands start to shake in the way most people do when they’re touching something they ought not to be. It might be the one of most beautiful things I’ve ever owned—well besides my wed—

I stop the thought before it can form, but the longer I hold the garments, the more my mind starts to turn, swirling with thousands of impossibilities and memories that should stay in the grave.

Every breath I take increases in labor, my lungs feel like they’re sticking against my ribs. I squeeze my eyes shut, begging the sensation to stop, but it’s like pulling the plug on a sink drain: I’m sucked down with nothing to stop me.

Once I reopen my eyes, the fabric in my hands is a crisp bright white… Layers and layers of fine Italian tulle.

No! Cut it out!

Without a moment’s more hesitation, I slap myself as hard as possible. The clap of skin echoes in the tight space of the closet. A stinging cheek knocks me out of whatever vortex I’d fallen into. Skimpy straps and false gemstones have returned to my grip, the memory fading to the background to be reshelved.

“What is going on with me today?” I mumble in distress as I check the price tags hanging off the items. The number is so absurd that I’m instantly brought back to reality.

Does he think sending me stuff like this will make me agree any faster?

I carefully pop off the tags and slide the thong up my legs before clasping the bra into place.

It fits perfectly, taking in my appearance in the floor length mirror at the back of the closet. I might have smiled at my reflection if the overhead light didn’t exaggerate the divots between my ribs. Twisting my torso, my frown only deepens at the sickly pallor of my skin, and to my utter dismay, I realize I’m now in possession of a large bruise on my hip from hitting it against the washer.

Was I ever beautiful? Or have I always looked like a phantom?

“You never wore stuff like that when we were together.” Dante’s calm, calculating voice fills my ears.

A shiver rolls down my spine, and I shudder as I ignore that nagging sensation. I’ve been scared out of my skin too many times today to give a better reaction. “Great,” I mumble, running my fingers through damp tresses of my hair. “I’ve started hearing things, add that to my list of problems—”

“No such luck, Rose.” Dante’s voice gets deeper with agitation and every single hair on my body jumps in alert. “Or is it Pearl now?”

My muscles lock up.

A wave of adrenaline spikes through my system like a match in a gas tank. Fear riddling me useless.

No… He’s not… He’s not actually standing behind me. It can’t be true… it’s not real!

I sway where I stand. My eyes skate up the mirror’s reflection, noting the shiny black dress shoes, the fitted black suit, up and up until eyes the color of lifeless amber bore into mine.

I suck in a startled breath, my back arching away from him in the same reaction one would have to a venomous spider… And for the briefest of seconds, I have to fight the urge to laugh because I must have well and truly fucked up my nose… I couldn’t smell him, and I know for a fact Dante Filoli would never leave the house without his favorite musky cologne.

He looms in the entrance of my closet like an agent of death, leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks. His face is etched in stone, giving nothing away besides the obvious beauty underneath his analytical nature.

I feel his gaze like nails scraping up my heated skin as he takes in my scantily clad body. The gemstones on my lingerie glittering in the overhead lights like beacons for him to enjoy. But there is no joy on his face, just ice-cold indifference.

The animal part of my brain is screaming at me to run, that I’m in danger, pumping my muscles full of adrenaline until I’m sweating and my scalp prickles. “Are you actually here or have I lost my mind?” I rasp, gripping the shelf next to me for stability.

He reaches out and I flinch at his hand’s approach. Dante pauses, hand hovering in the abyss before he gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

The caress of his strong fingers radiates through my blood. Definitely here, I can’t deny that bone rattling feeling. “You lost your mind a long time ago, but I’m as real as it gets.” He rubs a few strands of my bleached hair between his thumb and pointer. “I like the blonde… very sexy, but isn’t that your thing these days?”

I beat him away. “How did you find me? Wait—” I put up a hand, “let me guess, you never lost me.”

He shrugs, the gesture a display of casualness meant to disarm his opponent. He tucks a hand back into his pocket to finish the facade. “Well in all fairness, you did give me a run for my money at the beginning… Couldn’t find you for the first two weeks.”

“Well, I did have a head start,” I clip, finally gathering enough sense to remember one of these purses contains an unregistered handgun. Some revolver my boyfriend had stashed for me in case I’d need protection. For once, he was right. I slowly slide my hand across the shelf and into a purse, hoping it comes off more casual than it feels. Though nothing ever gets passed Dante.

His scrutinizing eyes flick to my hand and a small scowl pinches between his brows. “A head start… Yeah that’s one way to put it.”

“What do you want?” I demand.

Dante looks back at me, holding me prisoner in his gaze. “Just came for a little chat. Get brunch maybe. I drove the whole way from Chicago last night… So, I’m starving.”

The purse is empty.

Trying to keep myself calm, I continue to search the shelf without Dante’s notice. “Cut the shit. If you wanted to have a ‘chat’ we would have had it a long time ago. So, what do you really want?”

He rolls his neck, the cracking audible. “Caught me… Okay, maybe I came here because I need a favor from you.”

“A favor?” I scoff, my fight or flight response shifting from panic to familiar blistering anger. “And what makes you think I’d do anything for you!?”

He laughs, the sound sharp and lifeless. In a flash, his hand is pulled out of his pocket and in his grasp is a revolver. He cocks back the hammer and sticks the barrel under my chin. “Now what makes you think I’m asking?”

I’m frozen to my spot, chest pounding as my heart threatens to cave in on itself. “That’s my gun.”

He looks down at it, turning the scuffed-up metal in the light as if he were inspecting it. “An observant one, aren’t we? I swept your whole apartment, found all your little weapons including the pepper spray you keep in your panty drawer… very nice by the way… So, if you even think about trying to escape, I’d seriously reconsider.”

I realize with great stupidity that he was responsible for my phone’s earlier disappearance. The sheer thought of him sneaking into the bathroom without my notice makes my stomach swirl with acid. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep it from shaking and tilt my chin away from the gun. “What, I don’t play along, and you shoot me? You wanna kill me, Dante? Go ahead, I’m ready.”

His eyes shift, the corner of one twitching undetected. “Act like you’re not afraid of death all you like, but you’ve forgotten something crucial.”

“What?” I grit through clenched teeth.

He gets closer, his nose to mine as the gun’s barrel pushes under my chin painfully. “I’m the guy who put his fingers down your throat after you begged me to fix your mistake.”

The memory slaps me across the face and I’m suddenly disoriented. Something dark and repressed, forced to come to the surface, rising from the grave after hearing its name spoken. “A lot can change in three years.”

Dante moves back, pulling the gun away from me and tucking it into the waistband of his slacks. “That much is obvious… I didn’t come here to threaten you, so how about you hear my proposition first before you start to mouth off again?”

I step back as well, pulling my hand away from the shelf and wrapping my arms around my bare torso. “Keep the gun holstered and I’ll hear your proposition.”

“Deal.” He grabs my robe off the door hanger and hands it over to me. I snatch it out of his grip and quickly pull it on, a shield to keep his prying eyes off my body. “I need your assistance for the next three days. I’ve got these… clients and I think your new particular area of expertise would be of great use to me.”

I cock a brow. “And what’s my expertise?”

“Well besides being a lying bitch—”

“Fuck you,” I bite.

His scowl deepens. “Mouth,” he warns, “Besides that. I need you to entertain two men for me, get them relaxed and loose.”

“I’m not a whore.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Haven’t you heard the saying—we’re all whores, we just sell different parts of ourselves.”

“Only difference here is I doubt you’re gonna pay me.”

“I think not shooting you is payment enough,” he says, patting the gun under his jacket as a reminder.

“I’m not screwing anyone.”

He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing out the black fabric. “I’m not asking you to.”

“Three days and you’re out of my life for good?”

Hurt crosses Dante’s face, but in a blink, it’s gone. Replaced once more with cold indifference. “On my honor as Don.”

Three days and I’ll never have to look over my shoulder again. Free and clear. “Fine. You have a deal. When do I start?”

“Tonight,” he clips, turning his back to me and waltzing into my bedroom. He plops down onto my bed, laying back like a cat as he crosses his ankles. “Get tarted up, you know what men like.”

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.” He smiles, tucking his hands behind his head. “You’ve got an hour.”

I reciprocate his sarcastic smile and walk over to my vanity, scooping up my makeup bag to take into the closet. “Please, why don’t you make yourself at home.”

“Planning on it.”

“Great,” I clip before slamming the closet door to close myself inside.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!

The makeup bag falls out of my hands, too weak to hold on to it. A second later, my knees buckle and I’m a heap on the floor with my palms plastered against my lips.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Everything’s fine. Dante isn’t an inherently violent guy—who am I kidding. I’ve witnessed him pull the trigger on more than one occasion, but he’s never been violent toward me. That was of course because I used to be his. I’m not anymore. Now I’m the bitch who ran.

He’s trying to scare me.

“Well, it’s working!” I shout to myself after pulling my hands away from my face to clean up the spilled makeup products. “It’s not like you didn’t expect this to happen someday. Play along. The sooner you help him get this done the sooner he’s gone.”

As I squeeze the stiff plastic of the makeup bag, my head starts to swim. Vision blurring until the bag strangled in my hands morphs into a throat, scratchy hairs wearing my palms raw.

Saliva pools in my cheeks, my head throbbing as a memory forces its way to the forefront of my mind.

The room is so dark… A strong wrist like a bridle in my mouth. I can’t scream. A dress shirt turning damp against my tongue.

"I love you. I’m sorry. I love you."

"No!" I cry out, dropping the makeup bag again like it’s burned me. Wiping my hand down my face, it comes off damp with sweat.

A slick desperation soaks into my bones as I snatch the nondescript contact case from the pile of products on the floor. Little white pills like a babies rattle. Little white pills that help me forget and carry on. I swallow two dry and they meet the hollowness inside me.

Dante calls from somewhere on the other side of the door, demanding I hurry up and all I can think is that this is going to be a very long three days.

An hour later, I’ve slathered on my makeup and devised a plan. All I need to do is exactly what I’ve been doing the past three years. Be Pearl.

Dante thinks he’s special because of our history and a man’s entitlement can also be his downfall. If I treat him with the same cold callous indifference he’s offered me, on top of the brass forwardness that comes with being a dancer… He won’t be able to get away from me fast enough once he realizes the girl he once knew is dead.

I hesitate in the mirror as I adjust the hem of my sheer lace dress. Could someone call a piece of fabric from a plastic package a dress? It seemed too polite a word for what I was wearing. The fabric left the bottom of my ass uncovered. Am I pushing this too far?

No. Stop it. Just deal with it and stay in character!

I rip down an old leather jacket from a hanger and fling open the closet door.

Dante stands across the room going through my dresser with bored curiosity. Clasped in his right hand a tumbler of whiskey, in his left a pair of red lace panties. He really did make himself at home.

“I’m ready,” I sneer, pulling the black leather jacket over my shoulders, remarking with slight amusement that it’s the same length as my dress.

“Took you long enough.” His head turns with a look of agitation, but something makes him falter as he takes me in. For a startling second, he doesn’t look like the person in front of me, but rather the man whose hands shook when he first touched me.

It knocks me off my feet, and in an act of nervousness, I start to button my jacket closed so he can’t see how sheer the dress is. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” I snap defensively.

He straightens and tucks the panties into his pocket before prowling toward me at an agonizingly slow pace, stopping as our toes touch. Dante takes a sip of whiskey and then rubs the rim of the glass against his bottom lip in contemplation. I refuse to crumble under his penetrating stare.

“It’ll do.”

I scoff, “It’ll do. Give me that—” I snatch the glass from his hand, downing the rest of his drink.

“Except for the red lipstick,” he comments dryly.

“What’s wrong with my lipstick? Men love red, it makes the mouth look fuckable, and that is what you wanted, right? For me to look fuckable?”

He’s silent for a moment as he takes the empty glass from my hand and turns it over to show the lipstick prints on the rim. “It gets everywhere.”

“Oh please, Dante.” I step forward and press my chest into his, looking up into his eyes like I would with any patron at the club. “You always loved when I wore red lipstick, so you could look down at your cock and see exactly where my mouth had been.”

His jaw clenches as he drops the glass. It thumps on the carpeted floor. He tightly grips my bicep, yanking me out of the bedroom. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Dante still won’t tell me where we’re going once we get in the car. Unsurprisingly, like the good Italian boy he was raised to be, he opened the passenger door and waited patiently for me to buckle before closing it. Old habits die hard I suppose.

He wasn’t lying when he said he’d driven the whole way here, the car his same little red vintage number. Chicago to Pittsburgh isn’t exactly a short joy ride. Is there a reason he didn’t fly? Does anyone else know he’s here?

Though the longer I sit in my old spot, my questions start to fade, replaced with the usual undercurrent of anxiety I experience day to day. I don’t like to be in Dante’s car… It brings back too many memories. Too many days I’d spent in this passenger seat, watching him from the window as he chatted with other stanch men in suits. Nothing illegal, only the verbal trade of information. One of his favorite currencies.

He’s never brought me to meet clients before… Never. Five years ago, he would have told me, “Stellina, I have to leave, okay? I love you. If I’m not back by morning, don’t panic, call Vincenzo or Garner.”

But now I’m an accomplice, and with my luck, I’ll end up pistol whipped by the end of the night.

The drive is silent, he hasn’t bothered to put on music, and I know better than to fiddle with the radio. My gaze sweeps across the profile of his face, he looks almost the same. Still tan, sharp jawed, and severe.

He’s let his facial hair grow out, the shadow of a beard and his haircut left longer than I remember. The wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes have deepened. I lean in closer to get a better look as the streetlamps illuminate something shiny on his sideburn. Gray hairs.

I can’t help the laugh that slips through my lips, causing his grip to strangle the steering wheel. “What are you laughing about?”

“Your hair is turning gray.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh really?” On instinct, I pull open the glove box, chastising myself for thinking my compact mirror would still be there. My stomach sours as I look inside… because there it was, nestled on top of the car manual, a small silver case. I stop myself before I overanalyze the discovery and flip it open, “What do you call that, Playboy?”

Dante pushes my hand away and tosses the mirror back into the glovebox before slamming it shut. He grunts in displeasure but still tilts his head to the side to check his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, that one gray hair is from you and how goddamn stressed you’ve made me.”

“Please!” I scoff, crossing my arms in defense. “Only Dante Filoli can stress out Dante Filoli. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“No more talking!” He flicks on the radio and turns it up. I take my cue to shut up.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: Five Years and Seven Months Ago